


Cages

by valerienne (valderys)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-21
Updated: 2010-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 15:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valerienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I know I could fight it but why should I expend all that energy when all he wants to do is look in a pet shop?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [light_the_sky76](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=light_the_sky76).



> Written in 2005 for light_the_sky76 who bought me a present and I wrote this in exchange - she requested fic set in a pet shop!

I try to dissuade him. Of course I do. Fuck, it's not like some of the mad places he's dragged me into, like that fetish shop, or the 'Bargain Wool Shop' on Gallowgate that time, but it never seems to make any difference. If I try and gently steer him away he gets more stubborn, he gets wilder, and the next time will be worse, and I know that. He's got that look in his eye, and his hands are waving – well, when aren't they? – and I know I could fight it but why should I expend all that energy when all he wants to do is look in a pet shop? Perfectly normal thing for him to want to do, this being Dom, and he knows me, he does know me, but he doesn't know that this will make me shiver, and shrink, and cringe.

To be fair, I don't try to dissuade him too hard – I'm not sure I want him to know all my buttons, always supposing he doesn't already. I can be stubborn too, and he knows that as well. So I could have pushed it, but I didn't. His eyes flicker past mine, and I think, I'll keep you on the hop, Dom, I will. Got to keep you interested… And then stop that thought. That's an unfair thought, a nervous traitorous thought, and I can't think where that came from. It's going back there, anyway. Back in the murky depths, where the time I made Suzie McAvoy cry in third form lurks, and the fear of turning forty, and that bloke's face when I broke his arm, after he tried to mug me, and before he ran away.

Because that's partly what it's about, isn't it? I should throw open the curtains on those murky bits really, let out some of the smells, because it's not even as though turning forty is an uncommon fear. Everyone gets that a little bit. Surely? It's the beginning of middle age, you see. The beginning of bones creaking, the start of watching everything head south, and I've had the hair worry for years already. That's why, you see, that's why…

I watch Dom turn into the pet shop and I hover in the doorway, wondering if I can wait outside. But then he'll know he's got to me, and that's just not acceptable. Stubborn, remember? Sometimes I wonder if that's mostly what me and Dom have in common – being bloody awkward bastards. No-one else can put up with us, we'll grow old together like some more cynical version of the odd couple, and end up darning each other's socks, probably with yarn from the 'Bargain Wool Shop' – except that's patently not true, given we've both got lovely ladies waiting for us back home.

I step into the shop as I think of Ali, and then of Evi – bright girls, both of them, and patient, although I'm not so certain of that in Evi, she's got a flightiness in her, she may not stay the distance. Good, my traitorous heart murmurs, and I wince, for I have no legs to stand on when it comes to that particular train of logic. And I know that I should back away sharpish, and I will…

The smell of the place hits me then, as I step within. Sawdust, and acid, and that warm musty smell of animals too close together. I feel slightly sick. The air is always too close in these places, there's never enough of it to breathe properly. I take another step until I'm in the centre of the room, and then smile angelically at Dom. I'm good at that. It's got me out of infinite amounts of trouble over the years, and it doesn't fail me now. Dom frowns a little – that pinch between his brows etching the flesh – and I keep smiling, my mouth dry. Because I want to lick it. I always have. Way to go, Bill, for inappropriate thoughts, as usual. Why can't I just admire my best mate's arse, or his thighs, or whatever other normal slightly-confused-about-their-sexuality guys do when they ogle someone. (And, of course, I do, but that's another story.) No, it's all about the eyes, with me. The face in general. Which considering the number of times I've heard gushing eulogies to green eyes, and then laughed about the sentimentality of it all afterwards, is pretty rich, coming from me.

But it's strange. It's odd. And I don't mean Dom's face, although of course it is, but instead, what a funny thing to obsess over, and the fact that I'm thinking about such things in the middle of a pet shop in Glasgow, probably says more about me than it should. Maybe. Because I know what I mean.

Luckily Dom can't hear my thoughts. Because he wouldn't be impressed with them, I think. He'd take the piss out of me, but he'd be hurt in some way when he knew. At least I think so. But he's such a odd collection of bits, isn't he? If you take them one at a time they don't add up to much. A brow you could balance a whole dinner service on, ears that would be better off on Dumbo. A chin that looks permanently as though it's going to take off on its own and come back going 'you want some then, mate, go on, try it'. I'm not sure he'd believe me if I ever said that it doesn't matter, that it's never mattered. That it's him, Dom, just Dom, that. Well. He probably hears that kind of thing all the time though, like the rhapsodies I've heard about my eyes.

I stand there then, in the middle of the shop, and I watch him as he wanders about. Dom doesn't like to stay still for long, does he? Everyone knows that. But I can be still. I can. So I stand there and try not to breathe in too hard. The animals in the cages are mostly of the small furry variety, but there are birds too, and some fish. It's not an exotic pet shop, so I don't know what Dom's looking for – they're unlikely to have spiders, or snakes, or beetles. Any cockroaches they have will be behind the walls, not on display, and the thought makes me shiver, since the shop is humid enough that the idea is not completely impossible, even in Glasgow. Have I ever told Dom that his cockroaches make my skin crawl? Probably not. I'd probably find one in bed with me, if I ever did that. Fucker.

There are little noises too, rustlings and squeakings, and little scurryings, here and there, in the corners. Should I find it all sweet? Does Dom? Except we've never been about the nauseating sweetness of romance, the taking out to dinner, the flowers, the foot-rubs and the boxes of chocolates. Well, all right, I wouldn't mind the foot-rubs. No, we've always been about laughing ourselves sick, and pizza eating competitions, and waking each other up at 5.00 in the morning with a wet sponge down the neck. I run faster than Dom, but that's no surprise. See, it's like this. I can't even _imagine_ swapping fart jokes with Ali.

Dom's bending down to something now. And I glance into the cage and see a puppy there, a spaniel, I think, all trusting brown eyes, and moist nose. It's whining a little, I can hear it from here, and it's trying to lick Dom's fingers. Give it up, little puppy, you don't get anywhere with Dom by being sweet, and cute, and covered in fur. He doesn't go for needy things, he goes for shiny carapaces, and hard chitin. After all, I should know. I keep smiling as Dom rises, and I think, his knees don't pop, not yet anyway. Not like a man nearing forty. And my smile is shiny and hard.

He wants to go now, and I shrug and pretend indifference. He's bored with this, after his five minutes of fiddling about, and my non-reaction, and I'm not surprised. Dom has the attention span of a gnat, unless he's working, and this pet shop isn't interesting enough for him; it's got nothing he finds cool, or fun, or fascinating. Poor dogs and cats. Poor hamsters. You're not exotic enough for Dom.

I look at the puppy as it pants after Dom and think. Yes. I know you.

There's a reason why I don't like pet shops. I avoid them because they're full of cages. They're full of creatures shouting 'take me home and love me!' And I don't like that. I don't want Dom to know that about me. I don't want this to be just one more button to push in our never-ending game.

I look at the puppy as it yearns for its master and I think, I'm never going to tell him, am I? I'll stick with my shiny hard carapace, and I'll stay exotic and interesting. I won't turn into a eejit softy nearing forty, who worries that his best mate might get bored of him one day. We make our own cages, I decided long ago.

But I bought the puppy. I call him Griffin.


End file.
